The bottles were filled
with dust and sand
and their labels etched off
as the glass frosted
under none too gentle winds.
This was once a house
of whores the priests liked to visit
for philosophical debates
and chess matches
often played to a draw.
The glass in the door
was long ago broken
yet still sharp enough
at the shards to inflict cuts
that require stitches.
To the right a box survived
longer than the player piano
and in it lay three spindles
of yellowed paper
with holes punched for song.
But outside where the windmill
functioned with the rusted groans of age
water spilled from a bulls-head spout
into a leaky horse trough
where dandelions grew thick.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 